by Julie Reece
Above, the creatures watch. They bob their hideous heads, pace to me at bay, but they don’t attack. I’m almost afraid to know why. Then the grinding starts.
A slab of concrete at least a foot thick inches its way over the top of the pit. Only it’s not a pit.
It’s a tomb.
No vault exists in my garage. No crypt or mausoleum is kept anywhere on our property. At least, not one I know about. Yet here I am. About to be buried alive.
What are the last thoughts of a dying man?
Memories flit through my mind, but fear scatters them until I can’t hold on to any one image. I need more time. My voice rings out and returns to smother me. Reason is quickly wiped clean by the panic filling my brain. Questions knock against fear with no time left to consider anything but …
Raven. God, how I love you. Did you know?
The question will remain forever unanswered as I suffocate here alone in the earth. God help me. No, no help her.
She’s all that matters. All I ever wanted. And hers is the name I call as the lid slides shut on my grave with a final, echoing boom.
Chapter Twenty-One
Raven
The night enveloping me is silky and unpleasant, like suffocating inside black satin sheets. Darkness presses in, wrapping my arms and legs in an unseen bond until I can no longer move. I trip and fall into a yellow mist as cold as winter’s breath. Coughing only brings a burn to my nose and lungs.
Last I knew, I was running in the woods, away from actual zombies. Separated in the swamp, I lost sight of Cole and couldn’t find Gideon no matter how I tried. And I tried. I’m still looking. Seems I can’t turn my feelings off the way he apparently can.
I sneeze a disgusting clump of gold dust. A snap and rustle in the swamp’s undergrowth gets me to my feet. With the fear of monsters clinging to me, I call for my friends just in case, but no one answers.
A quiet flutter pulls my gaze up. Four baby owls cluster together in the crook of a dead tree. Squat and wide-eyed, they stare as if I’m a threat. “It’s okay, boys,” I soothe. “No one’s going to hurt you.”
As I step nearer, their little, round heads bobble. Heaven help me, they aren’t owls at all, they’re children! Smooth skin shines with oil, and dirt, and grime. Dark, greasy hair plasters to their swarthy foreheads, while round eyes grow ever bigger inside emaciated faces. What’s wrong with me? I don’t know how I ever mistook these pitiful little kids for birds.
Metal clinks. My heart twists as moonlight reflects off the manacles attached to their ankles, the chaffing skin beneath raw and wet with infection. Tiny feet clutch the tree bark so tightly, their toes appear to be white and bloodless worms.
One child picks at a scab on his knee until a red trail leaks from the wound. The next in line flinches. I think he’s in pain or afraid, but he repeats the awkward motion several times over. He gurgles, the sound of mucus thick and uncomfortable in his throat. I think he might choke, but no he suffers from some odd, gulping tic.
The wind brings the scent of illness and decay. My skin crawls at the sight of them, and then I scold myself. They need help.
When I raise my palm, the group huddles closer together.
“It’s okay,” I say.
The boys hunch and scowl with black eyes so round, I can’t see any white.
My hand inches closer. “Hey, I’m not going to hurt you.”
The children’s mouths yawn wide and they screech as a unit. One ducks low, the youngest on the end. Little square teeth gnash. Click, click, click.
I stumble back, struggling to regain my balance, and when I look again, four baby owls shiver on a tree limb.
What … ? Taking an uneasy step, I push the panic down. A dreamlike quality affects my mind until I’m dizzy. No longer sure what’s real, I turn. Run.
The ground is soft and damp, giving beneath my pounding tread. My lungs tighten in the humid forest, but I don’t stop. Perspiration glues my clothes to my skin. My progress seems slow and heavy, yet I jump at every leaf rustle, twig snap, and bird call.
I run until I can’t run anymore, and then I walk. A glow burns faintly up ahead, growing brighter as I near. Flame lights the uneven, narrow path before me that might be a deer trail to a watering hole. I’m wishing, since I’m parched.
Something hits the ground nearby with a thud. “Gideon?” I hope it’s him, but I’m met with silence.
My feet hit water, squishing in ankle deep mud. I feel the swamp beneath me, brackish water, and loamy, rotting debris. Yet when I glance down, the ground is as dry and cracked as Georgia red clay in August.
Or is this another of Pan’s tricks, a hallucination?
The smell of wood rot and moss surrounds me. Orange sparks fly up in the distance, tiny fireworks against a velvet blue sky. Smoke tickles the back of my throat. I pause as something whisper-soft touches my arm, like the brush of fabric. Crystal clinks. A woman giggles somewhere deep in the wood. Impossible, but I swear I hear music, an orchestra playing some classical tune I’ve forgotten the name of.
I jog down the path toward the fire. The pop and crackle of wood increases, and, as unlikely as it is, I pray the boys are together, and safe, and made camp while they waited for me.
But when I reach the spot, I find it’s more than a simple blaze. A wide band of flame divides me from my destination. Behind me lies the deadly swamp full of zombies and wrapped in the darkest night.
On the other side of the firewall, the sun shines brightly. A lush field of spring-green grass opens onto a rolling meadow. A brook lined with pretty brown stones cuts through the middle. There are maple trees and gray mountains in the distance. Cirrus clouds appear as checkmarks in the azure sky, marking off each perfect detail of the pastoral scene. The fire seems the division between day and night, two distinct and separate worlds.
And I’m on the wrong side.
More laughter trickles through the forest. I turn, seeing no one, but I smell them. Men’s cologne and a woman’s heavy perfume mix in a sickeningly sweet aroma that irritates my nose and throat. The gentle murmur of a man’s voice is answered by more giggling.
“Who’s there?” My gaze sweeps the dank, empty forest. I’m brushed aside as an unseen force jostles me in the dark.
Another glance at the meadow shows a group of people gathering on the hill. As they move closer, I count three heads. Four. Five. Backlit against the bright summer sun, their silhouettes are familiar to me.
Dane’s swagger is unmistakable, and there’s Maggie with her cheerful bounce following close behind. Gideon is here, his golden hair gleaming, radiant under the sun’s rays. He smiles, lifts his chin in greeting. Oh my gosh, that’s Ben! And my mother beside him. The parents I miss so much.
Emotion thickens my throat. When I blink, I’m surprised to find my lashes are wet. I laugh and wave, joy filling my soul to overflowing as I shout my hellos.
Until I remember that they’re dead.
Words strangle and drop off, dissolving in the sudden wind. Another pulse of fabric against my arm, a flash of purple, and suddenly, the scales fall from my eyes.
Dancers. I’m surrounded by a sea of waltzing men and women dressed in exquisitely designed formal attire. Silver, black, plum, and midnight blue, I’ve studied fashion enough to know the styles date from the year eighteen sixty or earlier. The animal masks they wear suggest a masquerade. Never mind we’re out in the open and cut off by a ten-foot wall of fire. Crazy? That’s just another day in the neighborhood for The Void.
I’m caught between the swirling partners, edging me farther away from the pretty meadow. People spin and whirl, the heavy scent of perfume, sweat, and oppressive heat nauseate me. I’m bumped again and long for the cool brook on the other side of the firewall.
“Not so fast, pretty bauble. I’m all alone here, so you must be my partner.”
A handsome young man appears dressed in a top hat and black coat with tails. I don’t know what he means saying he’s alo
ne inside this strange mosh pit. His face is powdered white with makeup. Long, black diamonds are painted over both eyelids like a harlequin. His coffee-colored eyes sparkle with humor, yet I sense something cautionary within. Brown hair spills from under his hat to his shoulders. His skin is tanned and smooth below the paint line.
“Thank you, no.” Why am I being so polite? I point to the pasture. “Can you take me to my friends, please?”
“In heaven? Oh, I’m sorry, didn’t anyone explain? You won’t be going. We’re your family now, aren’t we, pets?” The crowd gathers around us, laughing. It’s an eerie sound: hollow and empty as the deepest well. “I’m afraid you weren’t good enough.”
Everywhere I look, beautiful, white faces press closer. They leer at me with their dull, cold eyes. Red mouths smile cruelly. No, he’s wrong about heaven, isn’t he? It’s faith that saves you. Cut off from the people I love, I swallow my doubt like a dry pill. “It’s not what you do that gets you in; it’s about what you believe.”
“Not in your nightmares, my sweet.” He glances at the meadow, a sardonic smile tilting his lips. “And I’m weaver of the very best.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course not, but you will.”
A puff of silver smoke, and I’m face to face with him, a cluster of purple orchids clutched in my fist. I peer down through a dark veil and find myself wearing a black ball gown. Or … oh, God, a wedding dress? I drop the flowers and toss the square of lace covering my face aside.
“You are intoxicating, aren’t you? Plenty of darkness … hmm, and pain. Quite lovely.” He pulls me roughly to his chest. “Dance with me.” His nose grazes my temple. Despite the heat of the fire, his breath frosts my cheek.
“Not a chance.” I shove his chest, and he plows into a fish-eyed girl in purple taffeta. “Dance with your groupie puppets, and let me go.”
“But can’t you see that’s all they are.” Pan seizes the girl’s hand. With vicious force, he rips ball from socket, tearing her arm off.
My hand flies to my mouth. Wires hang loose from the hole in her shoulder to the limb in Pan’s hands. Sawdust and newsprint protrude from the tattered openings. She stands blinking stupidly, feeling nothing. Puppets.
He is alone.
“You see?” He stands motionless, aside from his gaze currently sweeping my body. “Worship me, Raven” he says. “Rule by my side. We’ll have such fun. Neither of us will be lonely, and we’ll play games and kiss every day. Love me, and I’ll protect you. You’ll never want for anything, I promise.”
I’m already backing away. He talks like a child. Bargains and makes promises like a little kid, which almost scares me more. “I don’t need you or anyone else taking care of me.”
“Be careful, girl. I won’t beg.”
“It wouldn’t do you any good.” My chin comes up, punctuating my message.
“Pity,” he says. “Have it your own way, then.”
The ground rumbles and cracks before spreading open beneath us like a zipper. I sink into the deep crevice, slip through the loose soil away from my tormentor and into darkness. As the earth swallows me, immense pressure squeezes every wisp of air from my lungs. Dirt presses into my nose, and ears, against my closed mouth. My nails claw at the dirt making tiny, ineffective furrows. It’s a toss-up whether the ground will crush me before I suffocate. Claustrophobia grips my mind as my lungs plead for oxygen. I thrash and jerk until my legs suddenly kick free.
I feel a cavernous space widening beneath me as I’m sucked deeper. My body breaks loose of the earth’s hold, and I free fall.
Pain radiates up my spine as I land on a tile floor with a crack. When I glance up at the dirty hole I’ve just come through, black earth retreats, plaster repairs itself perfectly and without blemish. I watch it all happening as though a demolition video is set on rewind. The damage transforms into a seamless, high ceiling, painted dull white.
The room is large and rectangular. Most of the bulbs are smashed, but a few fluorescents still hum and flicker. Weak lighting washes the room in a sickly glow revealing peeling green paint and the gray cinder block beneath. There’s a double door across from me and two tall windows to my rear with mostly broken panes. When a bolt of lightning flashes, it highlights the sharp angles, turning shattered glass to gruesome fangs that mean me harm.
“I’m trapped in a horror movie.”
Leaves have blown in and gather in the dark corners of the room. Cobwebs cocoon the abandoned wheelchair sitting in an otherwise empty space. I must be in some defunct hospital.
Wind moans as it wraps the side of the building making me jump. The cold voice of dread whispers my name. A shudder wracks my frame.
On the other side of the room, arrays of medieval-type torture devices materialize like old props from a haunted house. They weren’t there a minute ago, I’m sure. At least, I think I’m sure. Who knows in this place, but I’ve got a real bad feeling about it.
An iron cage hangs from a heavy bolt in the ceiling. Wide metal bands arc down from a domed lid to a flat bottom big enough to house a man if he scrunched up knees to chin. The floor is littered with iron masks, manacles, pliers, and prongs. A collection of large saws hang off peg boards on the wall. Jagged teeth spread in a rusty grin. The adjoining wall hosts a coffin lined with protruding nails. There’s a rack with leather tie bands, and a large wooden wheel studded with foot long spikes around the circumference.
“Who could do such a thing?” I ask no one.
I jolt as lightning flashes, and a man is here. Hooded and cloaked, he turns the crank handle of the monstrous wheel. The quick image of his victim impaled on the cruel spikes spins round and round. I gag as liquid splatters, glistening off the walls and floor. The cloying scent of salt, and rust, and iron fills my nostrils with a foul aroma.
When I scream, the hooded man disappears, and only a dusty wheel remains—dry, empty and immobile. This isn’t real.
Another clap of thunder bowls through the flashing sky. I smother a sob as a new victim appears ten feet away on the cold floor. The man wears no shirt and only threadbare trousers. His hands and feet are shackled. An oversized head cage is secured at his neck with a padlock dangling at the back. Blood smears his throat and chest. Fear pricks my skin like needles as the poor soul thrashes and shrieks.
I don’t understand what’s happening to him until I see the hungry rat trapped within the wire. I turn away, sickened by what hate and madness inspire men to do to one another. My eyes shut to the ghostly visions, mirages—whatever they are. Witnessing their pain makes me feel like an accomplice to the disgusting acts, however unwilling.
A bang sends my already panicked heartbeat whipping into Mach speed. Two men dressed in solid white scrubs burst through the double doors. This is no hallucination, because they grab my arms and lift me. I can’t see their faces, then I realize that’s because they don’t have any. Like bandits with tan stockings pulled over their heads, no mouth or eyes are discernible. There’s only a bump where their noses should be.
I’m slammed onto the gurney. One end is adjusted and locked to keep me in a semi-reclined position. Velcro straps secure my wrists and ankles to the metal bed frame. I scream until a gag is inserted into my mouth and tied behind my head.
Down a hallway we go. Wires hang in knotted clumps from the ceiling. Half the lights work and those flicker on and off like an SOS that won’t be answered. Maybe a dozen doors pass to the left and right. Black mold chews at the baseboards and framework.
An exit sign glows red over another doorway, but we don’t stop. My attendants move quickly, their feet tip-tapping with purpose on the gray linoleum.
Strong antiseptic doesn’t quite cover the smell of urine. Or fear. When my mother died, I grew accustomed to the distinct odors that death and sickness carry, and again in the hospital ward of my stepfather’s rehab facility.
Only I wasn’t bound and gagged then.
Struggle is point
less. My cries are muffled by the cloth bit in my mouth. Adrenaline shoots through my veins, lighting me up like a Christmas tree, but it’s not enough to break my bonds.
Another set of double doors snap back as the end of my gurney rams them. The orderlies on either side of me stop under a spider web of domed lights.
My stomach plunges.
The room appears to be some sort of operating arena. On one side is the door we just entered. On the other is a long, glass window, lined with more featureless faces poised to watch. Stainless steel tray tables cluttered with scalpels, forceps, and other panic inducing instruments form a barricade between me and my audience.
Why am I here? I wasn’t injured, and I don’t feel sick. The bedside manner of my attendants suggests this isn’t a real hospital, and they aren’t here to help me. Terror grips my throat, squeezing until I can’t breathe. I feel my eyes stretch to capacity, and I groan through my gag.
A man in tie-dyed scrubs enters the room. With both hands held high, he makes a big show of putting on a pair of latex gloves. He lifts an electric hair clipper from the counter and faces me.
It’s the harlequin boy.
Pan.
A tear slips from my eye.
“I’m awfully sorry,” he says. “You’ve been exposed.”
Exposed? Exposed to what? I have a feeling it doesn’t matter.
“We’ll need a closer look.” He giggles, addressing the faceless man nearest him. “Maestro, would you do us the honors?”
The orderly takes the shears and flips the switch. I glance up as Faceless Man leans over me. On closer inspection—not that I wanted one—smooth skin covers the spaces a nose and eyes would occupy. Black thread sews his mouth shut in a series of crude X’s.
Blades vibrate against my skin as he draws the clippers along my skull. Ropes of dark hair drop into my lap. The urge to pick them up and hold them overwhelms me. My restraints make sure I don’t.
“Marvelous,” Pan says, rubbing his distended belly. “Her agony is delectable. I hope it lasts.”
